Who's Move Is It?
by cactusnell
Summary: Mycroft is getting married, but have Molly and Sherlock really moved on? Maybe not. Sherlolly


It was Guy Fawkes Day once again, a day which Sherlock Holmes was, indeed, rather ambivalent about. As a child, he had never taken part in the traditional festivities, never begged for "a penny for the Guy", or joined his classmates at their bonfire. But two years ago, Guy Fawkes Day had suddenly become important to the world's only consulting detective, as it was the day he had saved his best friend, John Watson, but lost his best chance for a happy future with Molly Hooper.

He had asked Molly to join him for a day of crime solving. She had, naturally, assumed that she was merely replacing John, who was still very angry, indeed, about neither of them letting him in on the secret of Sherlock's survival. But Sherlock knew he meant it to be much more than that. He wanted to be with Molly, be near hear, drink in her presence after two years away. He had been well aware from quite some time that the small doctor had harbored an infatuation for him from the moment they met. Her stuttering, hesitation, and loss of professional detachment was a dead giveaway. But he knew that during his time away, time spent dismantling Moriarty's network and making London safe for the people he cared for, the pathologist had attempted to move on, to forget the tall man with the dark curls and the darker attitude. Had she succeeded? The ring on her left hand certainly implied that she had. And the stutter was gone. She looked him in the eye when she spoke to him, and confidently expressed her opinions. And when the day was over, she explained that she couldn't be doing this again. She had a life, and a fiance, and a dog. When Sherlock leaned over to give her a kiss on the cheek, as usual, he had hoped against hope that her resolve would weaken, that she would turn her head so that her lips would catch his, and he could then pull her closer, so close that she would, inevitably, hear how quickly his heart was beating, and know that it beat thusly for her. But she hadn't, so he didn't, and they parted company as friends. And Sherlock Holmes vowed that, if friendship was all he was now allowed, he would settle for that, and cherish it. Later that very evening, he saved John Watson from a bonfire, and together they thwarted a plot to blow up Parliament. He had John back in his life, Big Ben was still intact, and he was welcomed home as a hero. But somehow, the day seemed like a loss.

So, here it was, Guy Fawkes Day two years later. Dr. Molly Hooper had long since given up on her engagement to Tom, or "Meat dagger", as Sherlock insisted on calling him to this day, due to an unfortunate deduction the poor man had made at John and Mary's wedding. Molly had never told anyone the reason for the breakup, but almost everyone had made assumptions, mostly centering on one Sherlock Holmes. Ironically, the one person not making such an assumption was the man in question. Once Sherlock had met Tom, he knew it couldn't last. Tom was nice, but not much more. Not very clever, not very adventurous, not very, well, not very Molly. But by the time it had ended, Sherlock was very much involved in the Magnussen blackmailing case. He had once again indulged in drugs, had dated Mary Watson's beautiful bridesmaid, and even become engaged. Sort of. None of this particularly enhanced Molly Hooper's opinion of him. He could still remember the sting of her slaps. It had taken quite a bit of time getting back into her good graces, and had involved almost dying, twice, and being exiled for all of four minutes, but it had been worth it. They were now the best of friends, and the detective vowed, once again, that they would stay that way.

Molly Hooper was still at work when she received the text, but not from the Holmes brother she had expected. She was just a bit incredulous at first, but quite happy. Mycroft Holmes was getting married. At least one of the terrible twosome was showing his gentler side. She texted the man immediately, to offer her congratulations, but received no reply. So she then typed a message to Sherlock. Perhaps he could fill in some details. Once again, no reply. _Well, no matter,_ she thought, _I'm almost finished here, and I can go straight to Baker Street. He can't very well ignore me if I'm in his sitting room asking the questions!_

Since she was in quite a big hurry to find out details, Molly hailed a cab instead of making the trek to the tube stop, all the while thinking of the upcoming wedding. She and Mycroft had become friends while Sherlock was away for those two years, each seeking some comfort from the other while consumed with worry about the man for whom they both cared so deeply, and whose secret they shared. She had never felt like the proverbial third wheel in the company of Mycroft and Anthea. Mycroft was quite like his younger brother, which drew Molly to him, and Anthea sympathized greatly with the pathologist. She knew how difficult it was to love one of the Holmes brothers, and treated her kindly. And, Molly thought with a happy sigh, Anthea had won in the end. It had always been obvious that Mycroft adored her, and Molly was just very happy that he was now ready to show the world how much.

Maybe if she had held on to some small hope, some small glimmer of belief, that her relationship with Sherlock would end the same way, she wouldn't have been wearing a ring when he returned from the dead. But, while Anthea had all day, every day working with Mycroft to engender in him some desire to express his feelings for her, Molly had nothing but fleeting meetings over rotting corpses, hurtful deductions on his part, and even more hurtful remarks, and a two year absence without a word. No, there was never any hope, however fleeting. She was grateful that they were now the best of friends, but nothing more. It certainly wasn't Sherlock's fault. No one really decides who they fall in love with, or don't fall in love with, and the fact that she was more in love with the infuriating man today than she had been when he first swept into her lab, all cheekbones, and eyes, and curls, with his deep voice, and his beautiful brain was definitely not his doing. He had nothing to encourage her. It was completely on her. And whose business was it, anyway, if, when he said, "Well, another successful experiment, Dr. Hooper!", she wished that was wrapped not in her white labcoat, but in a white sheet, and they weren't in the lab, but… Luckily, the cab pulled up in front of 221 Baker Street before Molly could get even more lost in her thoughts!

Molly used the key Sherlock had given her ages ago to enable her to drop of, or retrieve, body parts while he was not at home. He had a key to her place, too, but never used it, really, preferring to pick the lock just to keep in practice. She climbed the stairs in silence, not a sound coming from the flat upstairs. It was just past seven. Maybe he wasn't at home. Perhaps he was celebrating with his brother. Molly smiled a bit at the thought of the dour consulting detective sharing a celebratory toast with his equally dour brother. There was no sign of life in the sitting room, or kitchen, and she heard no sounds coming from the bathroom. This left only the bedroom, which Molly was loath to check. While Sherlock had no compunction whatsoever about invading her space, popping in and out at will, climbing into bed beside her when her couch became unbearable, which was becoming a more and more common occurrence, Molly had some trepidation about entering SHerlock's inner sanctum. During their long acquaintance, she had been in there only once or twice, and very briefly. She opened the door and peeked inside, to find the man in question sprawled face down on the bed, a sheet loosely covering his lean body. _It would have to be a white sheet,_ Molly thought. She started to close the door as quietly as possible.

"It must be something very important for you to actually come in her, Dr. Hooper, so speak up!" The still drowsy man rolled onto his side, and shifted his body to the far side of the bed. "Come in and take a seat," he said, patting the empty space next to him. "I just finished a case this morning, and have been sleeping ever since. I'm still a bit tired, so I'll have to decide whether it's worth getting out of bed for."

Molly approached the bed rather shyly, then took up a position sitting upright against the headboard, knees crossed in the lotus position. "Oh, I think you'll want to wake up for this, mate! Mycroft's getting married!"

The man's face went blank, and his head made subtle jerking movements from side to side, which Molly recognized as signs that he had retreated to his mind palace. Fortunately, this particular visit was a brief one. "Mycroft who?"

Molly made a move to punch his upper arm, but aborted it in mid-strike when she realized that it was bare. As was the rest of him, no doubt. "Your brother, of course! Just how many Mycroft's do you know, anyway?"

"Well, I have a great-uncle Mycroft, who has already buried three wives. This last one is apt to bury him, I'm afraid, as he has fifty years on her, and she has fifty pounds on him! And a distant cousin, of course, but he's only twelve, so marriage may be a bit premature."

"God, I love hearing these little snippets about your family, Sherlock. They sound so colorful!"

" 'Colorful' is a term used by polite people to describe the more outlandish members of any given society, Molly, and I can assure you that quite a few members of my family live up to the name!" Sherlock sighed, and continued, "What gives you the impression my brother is to be married?"

Molly held up her mobile, displaying the text from Mycroft Holmes.

ANTHEA AND I WILL WED NEXT SATURDAY. DETAILS TO FOLLOW. SAVE THE DATE. - MYCROFT

Sherlock studied the words before saying, with a snicker, "I don't suppose it could be my prepubescent cousin and some young nymph from his primary school?"

"I highly doubt the kid would have my number, you git! Haven't you checked your messages today?"

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow and reached across Molly to fetch his mobile from the nightstand on her side of the bed, the sheet dipping dangerously low as Molly averted her gaze. Sherlock rolled his eyes at her discomfort. "You're a doctor, Molly. Surely you are more than familiar with male anatomy?"

"The male anatomy I see, Sherlock, is usually cold and stiff…" Molly stopped in mid-sentence as the detective chuckled at her unintentional double entendre. He was still chuckling as he scrolled through his messages, stopping when he found the one for which he was looking.

ANTHEA AND I TO MARRY SATURDAY NEXT. YOU WILL BE BEST MAN. THIS IS NOT A REQUEST. - MYCROFT

Then the next:

HAVE ALREADY INFORMED OUR PARENTS. BE PREPARED. - MYCROFT

Sherlock showed the messages to his companion. "What does he mean by 'be prepared'?"

Sherlock then scrolled through at least fifteen missed calls and text messages from his mother. "Ah!", said Molly, with a bit of a giggle.

They stayed in their positions for a moment or two, Sherlock lying on his side, Molly sitting upright, before the woman broke the silence. "So, Sherlock, are you surprised? Happy?"

"I am a bit surprised. But, then again, my brother always was the smart one. And I know people will think that I don't really care, but I am happy. For him, and Anthea. My brother and I may not get along all the time, but I do care for him, Molly. I love him, in fact. He's done a lot for me, even when I resented him doing it. In his own obnoxious, intrusive, domineering way he has always taken care of me. He deserves someone to take care of him. Someone who can be every bit as obnoxious, intrusive, and domineering as he can be. I have great faith in Anthea!" Sherlock spoke with a smile. "It's just a bit funny to think of my brother as sleeping with the goldfish. Although Anthea is more of a shark, I suppose."

"Sleeping with the goldfish, Sherlock? Really?"

"Don't blame me, Dr. Hooper. It's my brother who refers to lesser mortals as goldfish, not me!"

Molly was now laughing, "It's not that so much. I just keep thinking of that quote from that novel by Puzo. You know, 'The Godfather'. The movie. 'Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes'."

Sherlock was now laughing, too. "Let's hope, for Anthea's sake, my brother is a little more lively than Mr. Brasi when he sleeps with his particular fish!" Both continued to laugh as Molly suddenly gave in to the temptation to reach out and ruffle the detective's dark curls.

"Have you ever considered getting married, Sherlock?" Molly asked, already suspecting the answer. So she was completely surprised when she heard him say, "Just once."

Molly was surprised, but, upon thinking about it, decided that she really shouldn't have been. Sherlock was no youngster, and surely, in his younger days, he must have experienced some romantic feelings, before he shut down his heart so completely. She really didn't want to know, but, still, she couldn't keep herself from asking, "Was she beautiful?"

"She still is," he smiled, as if at the memory.

"What happened? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to!" Molly barely got the words out, wanting, yet not wanting, to hear about her love's lost love.

"Nothing earth shattering. I waited too long. By the time I was ready, she had moved on."

Molly had a sad smile on her face as she spoke. "If it's really love, Sherlock, you don't move you. You try to. You pretend. But it's always there. Did you really love her, then?"

"Yes. But as you said, I'm trying to move on. I'm pretending."

This could well explain his attitude towards love, and feelings, and sentiment. Someone had broken his heart years ago, and it had never mended. She knew the feeling well, and she now knew, without a doubt, that she had never, indeed, had a chance. Some beautiful vision from the past had always been blocking his view of her. "When did this happen, Sherlock? At uni? Or was it that woman, Irene Adler?", she said gently, wanting him to know that she understood exactly how he felt.

"Don't be ridiculous, Molly. Childhood fantasies can be enchanting, and there were certain enticements about Ms. Adler, I am sure, but not the stuff of which lifelong commitments are made. No, I missed my chance barely two years ago, when I came home to find a ring on your finger."

Molly couldn't bring herself to utter a word. Damn Tom, who was not to blame by any means! Damn the ring! It was cubic zirconia, anyway, she later found out. And damn the emotionally challenged, infuriating, self-sacrificing git of a man lying in the bed next to her! And damn all this wasted time! When she finally found her voice again, Molly said, a bit vehemently, "Sherlock, I think we should stop all this 'moving on' crap. We've both been so busy 'moving on' that neither one of us has noticed that we're not going anywhere! Marry me? Please?"

Hoping that he was understanding her correctly, Sherlock said, rather more calmly than he actually felt, "If you insist, Molly. But just this once. I have no intention of ever doing this kind of thing again!"

"Good, because I have a feeling I would be much better at murder than divorce. And I could get away with it, too, as there won't be any famous detective to solve the crime!" And she launched herself onto his chest, and was quickly rolled over onto her back and entangled in those lovely white sheets, and his even lovelier long arms.

A short time later, while she was attempting to disentangle herself from the sheets, and the arms, and the legs of the world's only consulting detective, rather reluctantly, it must be said, Molly heard the soft beep signalling an incoming text message.

ARE YOU WITH MY SON? IF SO, PLEASE HAVE HIM CALL ME ! - VIOLET HOLMES

"You're mother is now texting me, Sherlock. You'd better ring her back."

"I suppose so," he said with a resigned sigh. "Although I must say, your proposal has certainly made the impending conversation much easier. And I know one way to avoid it altogether!" Sherlock reached for his mobile and started typing.

"What are you saying, Sherlock?"

"Merely, that we are currently working on a grandchild for her, and that her constantly interruptions are proving a distraction!" Sherlock completed sending the message, and returned his attentions to the task at hand. To no one's surprise, they were undisturbed for the rest of the evening.


End file.
